


Take Up Thy Sword

by japansace



Series: My Love, We Deserve the Softest Eternity [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: + magic, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Elves, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prince Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri finally properly meets his in-laws and it goes about as well as you'd expect, some light fantasy violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-22 14:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18137000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/japansace/pseuds/japansace
Summary: “You want to be prince again?” Yakov demands, tightening his vice grip. “You still think you’re worthy of the title of Prince of Woodland? Then prove it. Earn your position back.”“How?”





	Take Up Thy Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be on hiatus for finals, but then I got inspired and missed my elven children...? Whoops.
> 
> Ages: 
> 
> Victor: 900  
> Yuuri: 860
> 
> Also, alternative title: Yuuri’s “meet the parents” stage of his and Victor’s relationship is a bit rough around the edges. (By which I mean extremely.)

Victor doesn’t contact the Woodland realm for one hundred years.

As far as elven tantrums go, it’s mild. Others have gone on far longer, done far worse. Yet, as Prince of Woodland, the weight of responsibility is not one that is so easily shirked. Yuuri can see it in the line of his back, the dip of his shoulders. And of course, he can hear the little wisps of blame that come for him in the night, needling him each chance he dares to let his guard down. Yuuri had shied away at the first suggestion of it, convinced he’d traversed too far; but Victor merely reminded him of his promise to him: that Yuuri could read him as much as he liked.

So he did—and kissed reassurances into Victor’s nape each time until he coaxed the worries out, had him air both the doubts and the guilt.

He rasped them into moonless night after night, Yuuri’s lips burning upon his skin.

It was time at last to return to Woodland.

Yuuri’s parents send them off with well-wishes. Mari curses them out when they refuse to let her come along.

Overall, it’s a very typical departure.

It’s a long trek to Woodland, and the fear of the unknown makes it feel all the longer. They talk strategy by fireside, playing out each possible scenario. When they have exhausted themselves, Yuuri keeps Victor’s worries at bay with an endless litany of reassurance inside his mind, pressing reminders into Victor’s skin until they both drift off under the stars.

Yet, it doesn’t stop Victor’s heart from dropping into his stomach at the sight of the enchanted forest.

They dismount their mares when they cross the threshold, treading lightly over the trail Victor could walk with his eyes closed. But he is suspicious now—hyperaware—of every stray branch, every displaced pebble.

If the forest holds a grudge, it shows no indication. 

When they’re at last spotted by kinsmen, the barrier to Woodland is lifted at once, the shimmery veil of magic dissipating into mist. It’s… a good sign, Victor thinks. At least he hasn’t been banned outright.

Though he can only imagine what awaits them inside.

Yuuri grips his hand tight.

They are escorted in with few pleasantries, something Victor knows to have been ordered rather than volunteered. He half-expects Yuuri to be denied admittance—fully prepared to put up a fight on this front—but he is instead ignored entirely, free to accompany Victor—it appears—as long as he keeps his involvement minimal and his comments sparse.

And he will indeed. _Aloud._

(But what they don’t know can’t hurt them.)

They’re led directly into the throne room, just as Victor anticipated, and left to their own devices immediately upon entrance.

The lack of witnesses is highly disconcerting.

“Victor.”

The distinct lack of the diminutive is a harsh blow, one that has Victor gritting his teeth.

Yuuri merely squeezes his hand harder.

“Father. Mother.”

“You’ve returned,” Lilia observes, dryly. “After a hundred years.” She sounds almost disappointed, as though she expected Victor to hold out longer, to have more willpower than that.

“Yes.” Victor breathes evenly, recalling what he and Yuuri had drafted. “I think I’ve been away from home long enough. I am the Prince of Woodland, and I feel my kingdom needs me—if not now, in a different era. If you accept Yuuri’s presence here, I am prepared to return to Woodland fully and resume my responsibility with no further objections." 

_Vitya—!_

Victor only has time to widen his eyes before of torrent of snow blasts into him, pinning his wrists to the doors and solidifying on impact into unyielding ice.

Yakov has Victor’s collar clenched between his fingers.

“You’re in no position to bargain, boy.”

They hadn’t planned for _this._

Victor’s eyes search out Yuuri. He’s in similar dire straits but instead locked to the ground by his ankles, falling to his knees as he tries to kick out of the ice.

Lilia merely strengthens it with a flick of her wrist.

“You want to be prince again?” Yakov demands, tightening his vice grip. “You still think you’re worthy of the title of Prince of Woodland? Then prove it. Earn your position back.”

“How?" 

“Really, Vitya, I’m ashamed.” Lilia dismounts the dais, her steps thundering against the tile as she approaches Yuuri. “You know as well as we do that only the strongest have the right to rule.” Yuuri tries to escape a maneuver he knows is coming but can’t break free; Victor tastes blood as Lilia grasps him by the hair, his love’s cry echoing through his head. “If you want your status returned to you, you will win it back in an honorable duel. We will accept no less.”

“I will do _nothing_ unless you _unhand him_.”

She does; his palms slap down against the ice.

Victor breathes out, slow. “If I accept your challenge and win, Yuuri gets to stay.”

“That would be well within your right as crown prince.”

“Then I shall do it: accept and win.”

“Very good.”

Yakov melts the ice; Victor runs to Yuuri—dropping before him—as his father’s words behind him barely register: “You will rest from your journey. The match will commence in the morning." 

They leave them.

“Let me see your hands,” Victor demands more than asks. He already has them in his own, turning them over to inspect the skin. As he thought, they’re badly scraped.

“It’s—“

“Don’t you _dare_ say it’s all right.”

Yuuri’s mouth closes, though a wry smile plays at his lips. “We didn’t expect this, did we?”

Victor cools his hands, holding them over Yuuri’s palms. “No matter. It actually makes things much simpler. All I have to do is win.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“With you, darling, it is.”

Yuuri’s smile is just too much; Victor simply _has_ to kiss it.

“Shall we strategize more tonight,” Yuuri asks against his lips, “despite the little good it did us last time?”

“Perhaps some,” Victor says. “However, I’ve been wanting to see you sprawled upon my own sheets for a hundred years now, and I’d like to make time to fulfill the fantasy if you don’t mind.”

Yuuri’s blush is hot against Victor’s cheek. “Oh, Your Highness, how forward of you.”

“Ah—I’ve changed my mind. Now I have a new fantasy.”

“Who is to say we can’t do both at once?”

“You spoil me, my love." 

“Mm.” His lips are just as warm. “Good. It’s what you deserve.”

* * *

Victor knows this hall. Knows it well.

Its winding green vines, its tapestries of old. They depict Woodland’s great duels: the passing of the crown, to whomever could prove they most deserved it. As the one and only prince, Victor was awarded the coveted position of defending the crown rather than challenging for it, but his position was never a sure thing. He would lie on his back as a child, looking up at the walls as one might look up at constellations, and chart his inevitable future. Humans thought fate was written in the stars; his own, however, seemed to be set upon stone.

But the hall Victor enters now is no longer painted with the soft colors of nostalgia, instead stark in the dawning light. All of greater Woodland has gathered around the edges of the dueling circle, whispering among themselves. The duel itself may be as customary as the changing of the seasons, but the circumstances surrounding it are not; they have many an elf cupping a hand around their mouth, murmuring about the unorthodoxy of it all.

Yuuri presses a hand to his brow at this, wincing.

Victor helps him find a place among his kinsman, leaving him safely within sight before setting foot inside the arena lines, hushing the crowd.

In the newfound silence, the creak of the double-doors is deafening when they open again to at last admit the king and queen, stepping into the circle themselves without so much as a civil greeting.

An elf Victor knows to be even older than his parents comes forward, being careful not to traverse the line. “Are we ready then?”

“Wait,” Victor says, and he already regrets what he is about to ask. “It seems both my father and my mother stand before me. Am I to assume I will be fighting them both?”

“That was the agreement, wasn’t it?” Lilia snaps, the steeple of her fingers set tightly together. “You do not challenge for the right to rule; you challenge for the right to return to your former position. You shunned us both, and thus, you must reign victorious over us both.”

“I see.” It is what he feared but expected. “Very well then." 

The arbitrating elf clears their throat. “Then the duel’s stipulations are as follows: Each party can use any weapons at their disposal: talents, tools, etcetera. The match ends when one or the other either steps out of the arena or otherwise becomes indisposed. If His and Her Majesty win, His Highness will no longer have access to his birthright; if His Highness wins, he shall be able to reclaim his station. The results will be final, bar any external interference.” They look between the king and queen, the wayward prince. “Do you accept these conditions?”

“I do,” their collective answers ring out, echoing against the walls of the chamber.

“Then…” They step back, assimilating into the crowd. “The first action will begin the match.”

The air goes still. Heavy. The monarchs stare, mouths set in tight lines.

Victor takes a moment to count his blessings.

There is a flash of white light—ice crackling beneath Victor’s feet—but he steps out of it before the trap snaps shut.

“You certainly are more prepared than yesterday,” his mother observes, blandly. It serves as a well enough distraction as Yakov prepares a sheet behind Victor, endeavoring to push him off-balance. But Victor only dips out of that too, evading it without so much glancing behind his shoulder to confirm the threat.

Yakov narrows his eyes.

Victor feels for the hilt of his sword, drawing it out of its sheath. It is no legendary weapon—something that’s seen far more chopped vegetables than lobbed heads—but nonetheless draws his parents’ eyes. He throws it between them, effectively separating them through necessity, and that is when Victor slicks the floor with powder. They each falter dangerously close to the lines, and Victor has to make a choice: get rid of one threat or the other. He waits—then strikes, knowing beforehand how his parents shall try to use the ice to root themselves to the ground, and melts all that is around them before they are given the chance.

With his other hand, Victor sends a blast of ice across the hall, hitting the Queen of Woodland squarely in the chest. Lilia reaches down to grasp at the dirt, but by the time her momentum is slowed, her nails have scraped stripes well over the boundary lines.

“Her Majesty is disqualified,” the arbitrator announces, the spectators moving to give their ruler a wide berth. When she at last lifts her head to acknowledge this, her eyes are still glowering a shocking blue-white, ice hissing beneath her clenched fingers.

Wordlessly, she stands, taking Victor’s sword from where he had discarded it and driving it into the ground, folding her hands upon the hilt.

In the arena, the battle goes on.

Lilia observes the grace her son displays with great interest. Trailing thousands of years behind them in both experience and skill, it was not expected to be a proper challenge in any capacity. She fully expected Vitya to lose to them within the first few moments; then they would make a show of disowning him, only to offer him leniency a millennia or so onward, after a thorough groveling. But this Vitya—

Lilia does not know this Vitya.

He is quick and poised. Anticipatory. Lilia would think it some Sealandian tactic if she knew not the intricacies of their strategies from an ancient friend. In fact, it is a fighting style she has only witnessed in that very person: a pre-knowledge of thought, not through simple prediction but instead through absolutely certainty.

But that would mean—

Quickly, Lilia searches out the mind talent.

There: the one Victor brought along, his fixation. He watches not her Vitya but her Yasha, with terrible, single-minded focus.

And his eyes are  _ablaze._

She looks to Yakov, biting into her lip with words unspoken. If she indicates to him at all the extent of their son’s allotted resources, he, too, will be made to concede. She cannot, herself, go over to distract the mind talent either; as much as she wishes it, this is not technically a breaking of the rules. Victor is merely using all that is afforded to him. In that way, Lilia cannot in good conscious deny it has her chest expanding with pride.

And yet, her blood is _boiling._

 _He is looking for an opportunity to get you close to the lines,_ Yuuri tells Victor, brow creased with concentration. _Stay to the middle._

By now, Victor is becoming short of breath, well exerted by the maneuvers he has had to pull off to avoid his father’s pitfalls. He digs his heels into the dirt, directing one of Yakov’s ice blasts harmlessly over his shoulder.

_I know you’re tired. The king is as well. He is becoming desperate and plans to try something more reckless._

_Like what?_ Victor thinks, though he knows it in vain. Yuuri, after all, isn’t reading him at all right now.

_Ah, —less ind—. He shall be —ning at y—, hoping to —ch you off-gu—._

_Yuuri?_

_Please, don—_ In the crowd on onlookers, Yuuri falls to a knee, eyes flickering like a flame being tormented by an impending storm. _Lis—, Vitya, stay on your —. He will be — at any mo— and —_

“Yuuri?”

_Eyes up!_

Victor scarcely has the wherewithal to obey, looking ahead just in time to witness his father finishing the task of icing over the arena floor entirely, using its composition to gather momentum.

To come right for him.

_Ah._

Instead of slamming into Victor—using his mass to both push Victor over the edge and halt his progress at the same time—Victor merely side-steps the advance, skating around his father with a flourish.

The king had not anticipated this—

—and slides right over the arena lines, finally catching himself on the far wall.

“His Majesty is disqualified,” the mediating elf says. “His Highness has won back his crown.”

There is the beginning of cheers and well-earned applause before the sound is converted into gasps, a single elf falling to the floor among them.

“Yuuri!" 

His mother is there when Victor fights the crowd to Yuuri’s side, holding a palm to the elf’s forehead, his head on her thigh. “He’s overexerted himself,” she says plainly. “Stupid gifted child…”

Victor can hardly find his tongue, falling before them. “Will he—?”

“Rest, I think,” she murmurs, looking up at her son. “You too.”

Victor swallows, shallowly. “Yes, Mother.”  
  
The Woodlanders file out, casting pitying looks to the outsider clutched in their prince’s arms.

* * *

“So you know.”

Lilia sniffs once, looking out the window at the enchanted woods.

Victor grips Yuuri’s hand at where it is thrown beside him in his sleep. “You’re not angry then?”

“Oh, furious,” Lilia says, deadpan. Her nails dig into her garment, at the elbows. “Furious at the potential of that boy.” She turns, fixing a keen eye on him. “Unfortunately, you’ve picked well.”

Victor hardly has the time to mull over that statement before his father is grumbling from his own post against the wall. “Should’ve known. You were acting too smart. Thought you might have picked up something in the last hundred years, but it seems you were merely relying on your better half.”

With his other hand, Victor reaches up to his neck, turning Yuuri’s betrothal necklace to him over and over, the sapphire nestled in its silver cool against his thumb and forefinger. “Then you’ll—“

Yakov waves him off, taking his leave of the room. “He can stay.”  
  
Lilia goes to follow—but stops in the doorway. She casts her gaze on Yuuri’s slumbering face one last time, making a tisking noise with her teeth. “As though we would let him get away, now that we know what he is capable of.” She shakes her head, the train of her robe following her out. “Foolish.”

Victor smiles. It is as good of an approval as he or Yuuri are ever going to get.

He runs a hand through Yuuri’s hair, thinking soft words, hoping they reach Yuuri in his dreams.

Oh, but the things he has to tell him when he _awakes_.

**Author's Note:**

> Still have many more installments of this half-done or almost-done or at least planned, so subscribe if you're interested in keeping up with the series. Hope you enjoyed it. <3


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